


Still This Appeal

by letsdothepanic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Bathtub Sex, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Canon Compliant, Daddy Kink, Dom Remus Lupin, Frottage, HP Daddy Fest 2020, Implicit Knife Kink, Kissing, M/M, Nipple Play, Non-Sexual Kink, Position Training, Sub Sirius Black, mentions of anal sex, mentions of oral sex, mentions of spanking, non-sexual punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24736603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsdothepanic/pseuds/letsdothepanic
Summary: Since Sirius has broken out of Azkaban, his and Remus’ play has not been sexual. Sirius needs Remus to help keep him safe and under control, and Remus is glad to be able to help. What he doesn’t expect, though, is to have Sirius pay him a visit as he’s taking a bath one night at Grimmauld Place.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 277
Collections: HP Daddy Fest 2020





	Still This Appeal

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to thank T for the kink consultation. It’s my first time getting this deep into a BDSM scenario, and their help has been essential to this story, from the earliest development to the final touches. Another thanks goes to Sarah (MarleneMckinn), for the beta-reading and the general cheering me on. A final shout-out goes to the mods of this fest, for organising it and giving me all the chances I needed to finish this fic.
> 
> Title comes from Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’.

The water is on the brink of too hot as Remus sinks into the tub, grateful for the spells that prevent it from spilling all over the old stone-tiled floors of the dimly lit bathroom. The darkness of the house is usually unsettling, but not tonight — not in here, while he’s alone and sore and in need of lessening the stimuli around himself.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place is full tonight. There are several occupied bedrooms in the very landing Remus’ guestroom is located, and he can still hear the dull thuds of Order members and kids’ steps alike, even though it is late and they should’ve all gone to bed already. The sounds are muffled by the house’s old bricks and planks, as well as the Dark magic that seems to work as insulation; thicker than any spells Remus has ever seen used as a heating system. There, existing in a space carved into the muggle-accessible world, uncharged air isn’t too easy to come by. There’s always _something_ ; something like a vibration, something that inhabits a wavelength that the others don’t seem to notice, or are just not affected by.

 _Or maybe Sirius is_ , Remus thinks, sliding further down into the tub. The water feels even hotter against his skin that’s been exposed to the cold air of the bathroom and, again, it is almost too much. Still it helps relax his muscles that are sore from the approaching moon, sore from the tension of waiting for Harry to arrive earlier, sore from what he and Sirius were up to before Remus left him to sleep and snuck out to take a bath by himself. The essence of murtlap in the water helps unknot his shoulders, and Remus wonders if he still has any pain potions left, tucked away in his travelling trunk he hasn’t gotten around to unpacking yet — even though he’s been here for two months, at least. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time, when Sirius offered Dumbledore the house to use as headquarters for the Order. Remus knew there’d be work to do to make it livable, but he thought that maybe work was what they needed after all. Sirius deserved to feel useful, Remus pondered, even if it was by getting rid of boggarts and doxies, and other grunt work that was certainly beneath his level of duelling and spell casting skill. 

It pains him, in a way, to see Sirius hidden and cast aside like an invalid — to see all the energy in him contained by the oppressive walls that are covered in oxidised wallpaper and Dark grime. It’s always been painful— like trying to trap an explosion within itself— to try and make Sirius _behave_. Though they had found ways of turning that into _fun_ over the years, rather than the urgent, life-or-death task it felt like these days. 

“Sirius, sit _down_.”

Remus’ own words still sound in his mind. It wasn’t something he planned on, giving Sirius orders in front of people. That isn’t a part of their arrangement— it wasn’t something the others had agreed upon, either— and Remus felt the slow but sure burn of shame in the back of his neck then; when it _worked._

He had his eyes fixed on Sirius from the moment Molly mentioned not telling Harry _any more than he needed to know._ Remus wasn’t sure if anyone else noticed, but he couldn’t help it. He could see the energy welling up, feel the slight crackle in the air as Sirius’ magic shifted and pulsed. 

Remus thought it was a low move, for Molly to accuse Sirius of seeing James instead of Harry, for her to question Sirius’ sanity when his intellect was the one thing he could still be proud of, after the time in Azkaban. Accusing Sirius of being irresponsible was one thing— he _did_ have a terrible record when it came to acting impulsively and fucking everything up— but Molly bringing it up only served to show how she’s actually much sharper than her soft edges let on. 

Remus wasn’t pleased by it. 

So his eyes were fixed on Sirius. When Sirius spoke loudly, Remus took a deep breath, ready to reach out and touch his arm, or place a placating hand on his shoulder. They didn’t need another chance for people to see Sirius as unreasonable or out of control. Thankfully enough, Arthur spoke. Molly seemed to listen. _Until—_ fuck. Until she accused him again. 

“Molly, you’re not the only person at this table who cares about Harry,” Remus said, more cutting than he would’ve wanted to. 

And then, “Sirius, sit _down_.” 

Remus wasn’t exactly worried he’d see he made the woman cry; he was afraid someone would see through his tone, his body language. Afraid Sirius would not listen and lose it, instead. 

Now that he thinks about it, having Sirius obey him was the best-case scenario. They managed to get through it and update Harry, and Sirius didn’t reach for the wine again. 

Sirius knows he’s not allowed to drink when they scene, which is a relief to Remus, most nights. Sirius has always enjoyed booze, and it’s not different now. Drinking helps him go through the dull days, which he’s told Remus, all seem to meld together at this point — _much like they did in prison,_ Sirius has said. _Much like they did in Azkaban_ , he has repeated, and Remus has held him close and hasn’t kissed him because they don’t do that anymore. 

Ever since Sirius has broken out of Azkaban, their kink play has been completely non-sexual.

They’ve come a long way from 1979, Remus thinks and sighs, at the same time bitter and painfully understanding. He dips his hands in the water and runs them through his face, where his muscles are tense and his skin feels sticky with sweat. He scrubs at his closed eyes, washing away the salt that’s gathered in his eyebrows, on his beard. 

Back then, he thinks, when he and Sirius had just discovered the buzz at Old Compton Street, Voldemort seemed like the least of their problems when they were running away from the muggle policemen that would raid the pubs, wearing hateful looks akin from the ones Remus would see on Death Eaters in the years that followed. They went to the pubs and drank, and danced to electric muggle music, and kissed muggle men, and fucked in muggle loos. They weren’t a couple back then, they didn’t _talk_ about the feelings Remus certainly had. They didn’t talk about being together and certainly didn’t see each other like James and Lily, who had gotten hitched and pregnant in the middle of a war. 

Remus and Sirius remained _friends_ , but not in the way they were friends with James and Lily and Peter. Remus would go with Sirius to the pubs and the clubs and the bookstores and the wee little Asian restaurants in SoHo where the immigrants and the queers were, and Remus would forget about how he didn’t fit in with the wizards for being a werewolf, _or_ the muggles, for that matter even though he had a name for what he was now. 

_Bisexual_ , like Bowie had said in ‘76.

He and Sirius had learnt about it all together. About being irreparably different, and about the people who were fighting to be who they were. They also learnt together about taking control and relinquishing it; about trusting one another while the world as they knew it began to worsen and the tensions created by war secrets and classified missions drove them apart. 

They were _kids_ , Remus thinks, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling the stir of arousal as he remembers Sirius on his knees, Sirius naked with his wrists tied behind his back, Sirius gagged and blindfolded, waiting for his cock. Twenty-year-old Sirius was just as energetic as he is now, but then—fuck, _then_ , Remus thinks, reaching to give his cock a distracted squeeze, his hand prickling and burning from going from the cold air into the too-hot water—then it was _blinding_. Sirius would fight him, stick out his tongue and tease, struggle against Remus’ precise _Incarcerous_. He would touch himself without permission and then take the punishment for it; let Remus spank his pretty, alabaster-like, tight little arse and moan, calling him _Daddy_ in the filthiest of—

 _“Shit_ ,” Remus curses, retrieving his hand from under the water and breathing out steadily. He rubs his face again, with both hands this time, and feels guilty as soon as the image dissipates. 

It’s changed, what they do. Remus has learnt not to take it personally after that day when Sirius showed up at his cottage and told him Dumbledore had told him to _lie low at Lupin’s for a while—_ the moment when Remus reached to touch him and Sirius flinched away still marked in his brain like it was yesterday. 

They’ve reached a balance now, and Remus isn’t really dissatisfied by it. He’s glad to be able to do this for Sirius, to help reel in all this sickly eagerness that would certainly consume him if left unattended to. Remus can’t keep Sirius from sulking and can’t keep him from being angry, but he can keep him from drinking every night. Because their arrangement has to be safe, sane and consensual, and that includes no sorts of intoxication allowed. Remus can take care of Sirius like this, even though it doesn’t look like care and affection and that _other_ _thing_ when he punishes him like earlier tonight. 

“You lost your temper in the kitchen,” Remus told Sirius as they entered Sirius’ old bedroom. 

“I did,” Sirius confirmed. 

His chin was lifted in defiance; practised, performative defiance that Remus knows to read as _take me down a notch,_ and nothing else. 

“I did, _Sir_ ,” Remus corrected. He pointed at the old, scratchy rug in front of the hearth and watched as Sirius knelt down, placing both hands behind his back. “ _Incarcerous_!” Remus cast and thin, silken ropes bound Sirius’ wrists. It drew a soft noise from his throat, between a scoff and an exhale. Sirius didn’t fight back, though, only shifted to adjust. 

“You are to keep position for ten minutes. I’ll time you. When the ten minutes are over, I will re-evaluate. If you do well, you’re free. You must look at me the whole time. Are we clear?” 

Sirius swallowed visibly. “Yes, _Sir_.”

“Good boy,” Remus praised.

He sat down on the armchair near the fire, then, and proceeded to remove his boots. Sirius was completely dressed; he would be until his punishment was over. It was about the discomfort, after all. Ten minutes never seemed like much at first, but Remus knew how Sirius was struggling to keep still. He could see Sirius’ shoulders tense up, his arms twitch with the need to shift and fidget. He saw the way Sirius’ muscles wanted to tremble, wanted to move. It took Sirius a lot of self-control to keep the position, and Remus admired his restraint. 

Remus admired many things about this man if he was being honest with himself. His magical prowess, his knowledge, his wit. Remus admired Sirius’ strength and tenacity, even after they’d been eaten away at by the Dementors, who’d left him frightened and haunted. Remus admired the sheer stubbornness that had kept Sirius from losing his mind in prison; he admired the way something that could be as rotten as a thirst for revenge had actually carried him through twelve years of gross injustice, and then helped him save Harry. 

Right then, Remus still saw Sirius like the truly powerful wizard he is — the man who became an animagus at fifteen, the man who mapped Hogwarts, the unmappable. As he stared at him knelt on the antique rug, Remus saw the first year wee Black kid who had dared to get sorted into Gryffindor.

He saw Padfoot — Marauder, friend, school pash and unattainable love, whom Remus had never hoped to claim for himself… not exclusively, at least, not permanently; and for reasons that kept piling on.

 _Keep_ piling on, he corrects himself, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily. There’s another war on the way. It’s already changed, the experience of walking outside and waiting for things to look different while everyone is still in denial. It feels like a secret, that Voldemort is back, even though they’re actually trying to spread that information, and not keep it. Things are about to go from nebulous to stormy again, and Sirius doesn’t want to be touched in a sexual way. It’s okay. Remus can deal. 

He can refresh the warming charm on the water and pour in more murtlap essence than he probably should and bask on the relaxing sensation that it brings. Remus is exhausted, and he feels like he may fall asleep like that, right in the water, if he abuses the essence. 

It’s tiring for him, too, to Dominate Sirius when Sirius is this restless and full of pent-up aggressiveness he’s got no outlet for. It shouldn’t be tiring, though. All Remus has done was sit on a plush armchair and stare Sirius down, after all, but it is still _draining._ Remus doesn’t know how to explain it, but ten minutes are a lot when they end with silent tears rolling down Sirius’ cheeks and the way he goes limp in Remus’ arms once the binding spell is removed and he’s allowed to drop the position.

“You did so well, love. I’m proud of you,” Remus always murmurs, or at least a variation of it. Those were his exact words, earlier. _Love_ and _proud_. Sirius doesn’t seem to think they’re condescending — not in this scenario, not when he’s coming down from this complex mental state and Remus is allowed to scoop him from the floor and deposit him on the bed. There, amidst the faded cotton sheets, Remus helped Sirius out of his shoes, tonight. He removed Sirius’ damp socks, rubbed the arches of his feet, warmed up his icy toes with a deft and slow massage. Remus took his time unbuttoning Sirius’ jeans, undoing his flies and pulling the trousers off his thighs—no underwear, Remus noticed, his mouth watering at the sight of Sirius’ soft cock and his face burning in shame for it. Sirius’ legs are covered in dark hair that’s thinner than Remus remembered but still stands out against his pale skin. Remus wanted to _lick_ it tonight, he thinks with a shudder, feeling his dick harden despite himself. He remembers taking off Sirius’ shirt, then, the way his nipples were hard in the cold of the room.

On the bed, clothed while Sirius lay naked, Remus spooned him from behind and held him tightly against his body. 

They used to be built very similarly, Remus thinks, dunking his head under the water and holding his breath just for the sake of it. He mentally counts til thirty very slowly, and then emerges, leaving bubbles all over the surface of the water. Everything smells like murtlap now; his senses taken over by the bath additions. He thinks of the way his body used to look like; the way Sirius’ did. He’s certainly filled out himself, Remus thinks, looking at his own knees. He used to be skinnier: lanky while Sirius was that kind of sinewy thin, with lean muscles and handsome veins showing on his forearms. 

Remus just thinks he looks _old_ now, even though he probably doesn’t have a bad body. Still, he knows, Sirius is thinner than he remembers. Sirius fits differently against his chest now, he buries himself there with ease they never had before. 

It’s not bad, though. And _fuck_ , Remus still wants him. He still lusts after him, even when they’re lying down together in what is supposed to be a non-sexual embrace; it is just an exchange of comfort and a way to soothe Sirius after he’s been disciplined. 

Maybe that’s what’s gotten Remus so knackered, after all. Holding back the way his body instinctively reacts to Sirius—wanting to kiss him when he can’t, wanting to touch him and soothe his pain that’s got tangible causes and the ones that don’t. Remus feels stupid when his brain phrases it as _yearning_ , but there’s no other word to describe the feeling of having his chest hollowed out over and over again by the things he can’t have. 

“Moony?”

The creaking sound of the opening door startles him; adrenaline making him shiver unpleasantly.

There’s only one person alive who still calls him Moony, and there’s only one person who would’ve known the spell to use to unlock the door—which a common Alorromora would not have accomplished. 

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was, but—” 

Sirius enters the bathroom slowly, padding across the floor to meet Remus by the lip of the oversized clawfoot tub. It’s a beautifully made piece of furniture; stone and silvery metal and gemstones on the faucets. Remus is fairly sure that it’s more valuable than everything he’s ever owned combined. 

“But?”

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

Unprepared for the confession, Remus frowns and runs a hand through his own hair that’s wet and falling uncomfortably over his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to leave the infusion bath; not when what’s waiting for him in bed is the longing that comes from being so near Sirius and yet so far from him. 

“I’ll be with you in a few, yeah?” He promises anyway. 

He feels stupid for it, but it’s too hard to say no to Sirius Black.

“I thought I’d just join you,” Sirius flashes him a smile that’s got a hint of an edge, and Remus’ stomach clenches painfully. 

It’s not like he doesn’t appreciate it — _Merlin Christ_ , Remus more than appreciates it — but it’s hard to believe this will result in anything good. Not when Remus is already at least half-hard, and the murtlap essence is only enough to barely tint the water yellow. He knows that the second Sirius comes close enough he’ll _see_ , and Remus doesn’t think he’s got the strength to hide it right now; aware of how slimy of a person it makes him. 

“I wasn’t expecting company,” Remus says, on a weak exhale. 

“Let me wash your hair,” Sirius offers as a reply. 

Remus frowns. He doesn’t move at first, just stares and waits. 

He watches as Sirius takes off the bathrobe he’s wearing, revealing the ratty pair of underpants he’s got on. Something stirs in Remus’ abdomen when he realises those are _his_ last clean pants Sirius is wearing; the intimacy of it outweighing the annoyance. 

And then — “ _Fuck_ ” —he can’t help but mutter out loud. 

Because then the pants are off and Sirius is naked, circling the tub and touching a bony hand to Remus’ shoulder, whispering a “move over, will you?” that makes the hairs on Remus’ arms stand out. 

He’s _more_ than half-hard, all of a sudden. 

Remus thanks the ancient spells that keep the tub from overflowing when Sirius does the unimaginable and gets in behind him; Sirius’ lean body an unexpected source of heat that radiates even stronger than the fragrant water, the warmth hitting Remus’ tense back in waves for what feels like several minutes before any of them speaks. 

“You’re stiff as a beater’s bat,” Sirius says, and for some reason Remus expects his voice to bounce off the walls and echo. The room is seemingly enormous and claustrophobic at the same time. When Sirius moves to adjust his legs, Remus folds into himself, leaning forward and hugging his own knees against his chest, leaving room where there shouldn’t be any — where there _wouldn’t_ _be_ any, if he could get his way. 

Sirius’ breathy laugh licks the back of Remus’ neck, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. It’s a ghost of a touch. 

Remus’ exhale is shaky, then. He evaluates the situation in his head, keeping his distance even though it’s barely there—the inch of water between their bodies an entire ocean surrounding him, making Remus into an island while Sirius—with his outstretched legs and arms resting on the tub’s lips—is a whole continent. 

“May I?” Sirius asks, voice even closer than before.

Remus didn’t expect him to ask for permission — doesn’t expect it at all from him on a good day.

“Are we scening right now?” Remus asks. He needs to know, doesn’t he? _Safe, sane, consensual,_ he repeats in his head, trying to determine if he’s even got the first two down; if he hasn’t gone mad with whatever they’re doing yet, if he isn’t doped on the plant extract fumes and over the bend already. 

“ _Just —_ let me —,” Sirius asks again. Remus can hear the frown in his tone, and feels Sirius’ fingers dig into his shoulders before he can say anything. 

Island crashes into shore, then. Thanks to Sirius’ impatience, thanks to his impetuous self that doesn’t need to be punished right now because this isn’t his energy overflowing and destroying things in its path — it isn’t Sirius harming himself the way Remus has sworn he’d keep him from doing.

It’s just a touch, after all. First there are bony fingers digging into sore, stiff muscle. Then there are Sirius’ thighs touching Remus’ legs. Next there are his arms moving to circle Remus’ middle, under the water. Finally there is his cheek rough against Remus’ scapulae. 

“Shhh, _Daddy,_ ” Sirius soothes. 

Remus feels his ears burn. His cock twitches at the word, pathetically alert. 

“You’ve been so good to me,” Sirius continues, leaving small kisses on Remus’ neck. The touch is light, and the drag of his stubble awakens all the millions of nerve ends they graze on Remus’ neck. Sirius mustn’t have shaved since Remus did it for him, several weeks ago. 

It was a messy affair, mixing the shaving cream manually and applying it with an old-timey Abraxan hair brush they had found lying about in the house. It had belonged to one of Sirius’ late relatives, just as the razor they were using, and Remus tried not to analyse it much when Sirius had asked him to use it on him. 

_‘That’s. Ah.’_

The memory of Sirius’ wee gasp as he’d pressed the blade against his neck for the second before Remus could move it sends a spark through his veins; makes his cock stir again. 

“Let me take care of you,” Sirius pleads.

He isn’t asking Remus to submit, isn’t pushing him to his knees or giving him orders. It’s just _Sirius_ , charming his way into getting what he wants. It transports Remus straight to Scotland and then another side of London, straight to over a decade ago — to touches traded in secret, to alcoves in the Hogwarts castle, to the tacky dance floors of dingy pubs. 

“I missed this,” Remus says because it’s true.

He might as well have said he misses _Sirius_ , but that wouldn’t be any less true. He’s missed the way Sirius’ fingers run down his sides, the way Sirius’ scent takes over his senses, over the other delicate fragrances of the bath. He smells faintly like clove cigarettes and something else _burnt_ , something else that’s ashen. When Sirius leans in to kiss Remus’ neck and then his jaw, he can _feel_ the tangy smell of his unwashed scalp, and it’s strange how Remus doesn’t find it unappealing but delights on it; he craves what is supposed to be wrong, raw, _dirty_.

He enjoys Sirius dirty, alright. 

Remus enjoys the dirty way Sirius tugs at his hair to have him tilt his head back; the dirty way he licks at the seam of Remus’ lips to get them to part so he can taste the inside of his mouth. Their kiss turns _filthy_ , despite the poor angle, and Remus feels it all over his body. It leaves his limbs alight, his fingers tingling, toes curling in the water. Their bodies move together, undulate in delicate synchrony as the water laps at the sides of the tub. It’s deep and slow, rather than urgent. They gasp and groan into each other’s mouths. Remus’ teeth pulling at Sirius’ bottom lip—Sirius sucking on his tongue. There’s something there, something underneath it all that betrays the gravity of the moment, and yet the hurry is lost in them.

When Sirius’ free hand finds his nipple, Remus moans. He moans with abandon, trusting the thick stone tiles that cover the floor and the walls to keep the sound inside; he prays that the Dark magic that serves as insulation does more than keeping the heat and the _hurt_ trapped inside. Remus hears the sounds that escape him and lets himself be kissed. He licks into Sirius’ mouth again and again, and delights in the way he feels Sirius’ hard cock press against his back.

He’s forgotten just how much sensation this could bring, Remus realises, shuddering when Sirius pinches his nipple, rolls it between his thumb and index finger and it sends a spark all the way to his dick. He’s aware he’s hard, aware of the clench of the muscles low in his belly, the tightness of his bollocks—and yet Remus doesn’t think he’ll need to be touched there to come.

It’s been some time, after all. Some time since he’s had Sirius’ pointy canines scrape his throat; Sirius’ nibbles to his earlobe. “You’re gonna make me come,” he half-laughs, and Sirius’ bitten nails graze his sensitive skin.

“Come for me, Daddy.” Sirius holds him tighter; uses his whole body. His thighs tighten around Remus’ and the proximity lets him feel the throb of Sirius’ erection pressing against his back. Remus might be losing his mind, he thinks, because at that moment he feels every contour of it, every point of contact, every vein on Sirius’ underside, and his mouth bloody _waters._ “You’ve been so good to me, Daddy. You deserve to come.”

“Kiss me again,” Remus says without thinking.

He’s been thinking too much, too much, too much. Thinking and pulling back, too. He’s been keeping all sorts of things inside, and when Sirius sucks on his bottom lip and groans, it is hard to keep up with the restrain. Sirius pinches him, pulls on Remus’ hard nub he’s got between his fingers and Remus gasps. It’s loud and pitchy; a broken ‘ _Ah’_ that rips from his throat over and over, swells in crescendo and dies down into heavy exhales. Remus comes and thinks of nothing; his mind comfortably blank as his spunk mixes with the bathwater _—_ cock still throbbing as he catches his breath and his body goes limp against Sirius’.

“Before you spiral,” Sirius whispers — that or he _growls_ ; low and breathy and pointed with a nip to Remus’ earlobe _—_ once Remus’ chest has stopped rising and falling so rapidly. “I didn’t feel like I owed you anything. I reckoned you needed me to make the first move _—_ ” Sirius sucks on the spot right below Remus’ ear and, if the full moon was closer, Remus would be able to _smell_ the blood rising to the surface, the capillaries breaking as a mark bloomed there. “Which proved effective…” 

Remus smiles, shakes his head in acquiescence. It’s worked alright.

“I do appreciate it all, though,” Sirius continues. 

Remus is sated, loose. He doesn’t want to go back to reasoning so soon; doesn’t want to have the talk he knows they must get into. Not now, at least. “I know,” he says.

Sirius wraps his arms around his chest, then. He rests his chin on Remus’ shoulder and kisses Remus’ neck again, and it’s a different kiss than before. He touches his lips to the red marks on Remus’ skin, laves his tongue over the bruises that will surely be there tomorrow. It’s slow and languid, and it does little to help the way Remus’ pulse threatens to pick up once more.

“I can’t promise you that things will ever go back to being like they used to,” Sirius speaks and Remus exhales.

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” It doesn’t sound like defeat when Remus says it, even though there’s a tinge of unavoidability to it. The world feels oddly similar to what it used to when the first war was brewing below the surface of this placid world Remus knows he doesn’t belong to, but the stakes have certainly changed. _Sirius_ has changed, and Remus is afraid he doesn’t belong to him, either.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Sirius murmurs into the base of his skull. He rubs his scruffy cheek against Remus’ damp skin and his body feels _warm —_ engulfed by the vow those words carry. A shiver runs all over him, and it’s got nothing to do with the temperature. The water may be cooling around them, but Remus has a feeling that he _— they —_ won’t be cold. Not for a while, still. 


End file.
